


Dark Heart

by runawaygypsy



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gothic, Romance, Smut, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 18:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runawaygypsy/pseuds/runawaygypsy





	Dark Heart

He brooded. It was years since his sister's untimely demise and he wanted to seek solace where he could. Tonight, it was the dark corner of a pub on the outskirts of London. Wistful at the thoughts of the past, he shuddered as he thought of his last days at the house. The House. It had a mind of its own, a life of its own, murderous as it was. After everything that happened, he couldn't bear to go back. The land had been worth a pretty penny, given the rich mining resources it contained, despite the blood that had been spilled there. He expected the house was demolished, or slated to be soon enough.

The cold comforts of the only home he'd known were traded for the hustle and bustle of the city, the sale of the estate providing a comfortable enough house, though much smaller, three stories in a row or similar houses. It felt comforting to have as many people living nearby as he did, but he also found himself becoming more and more crowded as the Industrial Age progressed and throngs of people flocked to the city in search of technologies not as easily afforded in the country. It was in this respect that he made the impulsive decision to take an impromptu holiday and escape into the countryside for a while. Just long enough to breathe, he told himself. He admitted he wanted the clean air, the soft smells, to wake to the sound of birdsong rather than the clanking of machinery and the voices he so often heard first thing in the morning.

As he shuffled around the office, Sir Thomas Sharpe inquired about places to let with the hope that his colleagues might be helpful. None of them had a clue, but his desires found redemption in the form of a client who was scheduled to discuss plans for a machine he was designing. This man helpfully suggested that there was a small estate on the moors he'd heard had recently been vacated. He described it as quaint, built around the turn of the century, most recently, of gray stone, was more of a manor house, but on a slightly smaller scale than the ones Thomas was used to. He made a point of letting Thomas know that there were no neighbors nearby and that the closest village was, at minimum, a day's ride away. The estate was owned by a cousin and the man was most helpful in giving Thomas contact information for the relation before wishing him luck in his endeavors.

Thomas left the office in the early evening with the intention of finding the client's cousin and securing a lease of the estate. He arrived at the address the man had scrawled on a piece of paper and knocked on the door. Not sure what he expected, the door was answered by a kindly elderly gentleman who was clad in a nightgown. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "I didn't think it was so late that you'd be turning in. I don't mean to impose."

"Nonsense," the man spit, then smiled, his gums showing in their glory where teeth should have been. "I'm always dressed like this. No need to go out," he shrugged. "Please, come in."

The man led Thomas into the bowels of the house, through barely lit hallways and into a sitting room illuminated by nothing but two candle sconces on the wall. Thomas restrained himself from asking the man about electricity, instinctively knowing the subject was taboo. "I've come about a manor house you may have to let," he said as he sat on a settee, directed by the man's beckoning hand.

"Ah, yes," the man replied. "My name's Oliver Pemberton, by the way."

"Sir Thomas Sharpe," he introduced, extending his hand, pulling it back when he realized the old man was not reciprocating his gesture of goodwill. "Nice to meet you, Sir."

Oliver let out a "Harrumph." "The land you are asking about is called Pemberton Hall," he explained. "It's been in my family for generations. The original house was destroyed and my great, great grandfather built the house that's on the land now."

"I hear it's been recently vacated," Thomas commented, hoping the man would let on as to why.

"It has," Oliver answered. "A nice young couple leased it for a few months, until they could purchase their own estate. They've recently moved to Edinburgh." He coughed. "It's in pristine condition, as they promised they would leave it. I hope you don't mind being secluded."

"Not at all," Thomas smiled. Despite his gruffness, he liked the old man. "In fact, that's precisely why I'm looking to holiday. If you don't mind, I'd like to let it for three months." He was delighted when the man accepted. Contracts were signed and money changed hands before Thomas left the man's house with a map in hand to the estate that was to become his residence for a quarter of a year.

His colleagues understood when he told them the news on his way out the next day. They'd always thought he was overworking himself and encouraged him to find a nice woman to marry. He'd not told them about his past, preferring to leave Edith and his sister, Lucille, buried in the shadows, like two spectres in the darkness of his memories. Some things were better left forgotten, unspoken of and relegated to the confines of nightmares left behind. Besides, it had been years and he was no longer the man he'd been when the events took place. He was a successful engineer, a purveyor of the Industrial Age in all its glory, a self-made man. When he looked in the mirror, he saw lines where they weren't before, his black curls tempered with streaks of gray, his eyes reflecting the harshness of the events that had taken place. Yes, he was different, but stronger, better, he'd decided.

It was evening before he arrived and tendrils of mist swirled around the barren moors, lending an eerie feel to the area. Were he another man, Thomas felt he would think the shrouding an omen, but he'd endured a life worse than mists and superstitions. Even the wayward sounds that crept through the air failed to disturb his sense of relief at seclusion. As if at long last, he'd found somewhere that was welcoming and comforting to him.

As he approached the house, he could see the gray stones Oliver Pemberton had told him about, stacked meticulously together, perhaps so tightly that mortar was not needed to seal them. The roof appeared black, textured as it was by a dark covering of moss. He decided there would be leaks, no doubt, but that was not a worry he needed to concern himself with until they began to trouble him. The door was painted a bright red, an oddity, he thought, given that the surroundings were so bleak, but, then again, perhaps that was the point. He imagined at one time the manor had served as an inn of sorts and the now worn door must've been a beacon for weary travelers.

A motion in an upper window took his attention from reasoning over the door. It was a slight flutter of the fabric of the curtains and he thought he'd seen someone peering out at him, but when he looked up at it, the figure had gone. The low light and his own fatigue, he reasoned, made his eyes play tricks on him. As he pulled the key Oliver had given him from his pocket and moved to insert it into the lock, the door opened, slightly. "Who's there?" a soft Scottish voice asked.

"Sir Thomas Sharpe," he introduced, removing his hat and bowing at the unseen person behind the door. "I've arranged with Mister Oliver Pemberton to let this estate for the next three months." He assumed the woman who answered was a servant of some sort, though Oliver had failed to mention that there was any sort of staff.

The door opened the rest of the way and he saw her step back into the shadows behind it, allowing him entrance. "Shall I get your luggage, Sir?" she asked. He nodded and watched as she stepped daintily around the hulking door, her footfalls soft and barely audible against the hard floors. From what he could see of her, she was pretty, her red hair gracefully pulled into a bun on the back of her head, soft curls around a heart-shaped face. He could not see her eyes as she demurred, but her cheeks were spattered with a light dusting of freckles and her lips, drawn into an impatient pucker, rosy. She was dressed in blue, obviously a servant's uniform of some sort, and it was beginning to get shabby. He wondered if she had anything else to wear. If not, he decided, he'd send away for something for her, to show her a spirit of good will.

"What's your name?" he asked as she returned to the manor with his bags in hand. "You know who I am, but I've no idea who you are." He smiled at her, hoping she would return it.

Instead, she looked up at him, bright green eyes wide. "Servants are to stay silent," she answered. "Who I am is of no consequence."

As she moved past him, he grabbed her elbow. "It is if we are to share space for the next three months. I shall like to call you by name, rather than title. I think that would be more befitting of both of us."

"Rosemarie," she sighed. "My name is Rosemarie." She shook his hand from her and proceeded up the wide staircase to her right. "Follow me and I'll show you where you can stay."

Thomas chuckled. "I shall like the grand tour, if you don't mind."

She nodded. "As you wish, Sir."

He followed her into the house, up the stairs with their overly-ornate banisters, his foot nearly catching on the shabby carpet. It nearly took his breath away as he managed to stabilize himself with one hand grasped on the railing. Rosemarie didn't seem to notice. She'd already reached the top and was disappearing into a dark corridor. Thomas skipped steps to catch up with her and finally managed to pace her as she stopped in front of a doorway. "You're rather quick," he smirked as she glanced back at him.

Her expression was blank. She showed neither fear nor deference to him. "This is your quarters, Sir," she said as she unlocked the door. "I'd advise you to keep it locked at night when you retire."

"Why?" he asked, though he was certain she'd say that there were phantoms about. He'd had enough of ghosts and the like growing up. Though he was tired of them, he was used to them.

She narrowed her eyes. "There's been bandits," she finally answered after studying him for a few silent moments. "The moors have become thick with them. All the household valuables are kept in those quarters."

With a sigh of relief, he replied, "I'll do as you suggest. Bandits, I can do without."

Rosemarie motioned for him to enter the room and he obliged, stepping gingerly past the spot where she'd left his bags. "Thank you, Rosemarie," he said as he turned around, but she'd already gone, having silently closed the door behind her.

The room, his room, was different from the one he'd spent his time in during his childhood, yet it reminded him of it more than he liked to admit. There was a lack of the ornate. Everything was carved in simplistic designs, even the head and foot boards of the sleigh bed. It was as though an artist had taken only a broad-bristled paint brush to create the strokes of the room. Yet, for all its lack of design, he still felt a cavernous darkness that oppressed him. It was a feeling that stuck with him until he decided it was due more to the lack of light than the actual design of the quarters themselves. He lit the gas lamps in the sconces on the wall and set about unpacking, the entire time feeling a hollow in the pit of his stomach.

When Thomas was finished unpacking, he felt the pangs of hunger strike and set out to find himself some food. Rosemarie was nowhere to be found and she'd failed to tell him where her own room was, so it fell upon himself to explore the manor and find something, anything to eat. He descended the stairs, noticing a loud creak as he hit the fifth step, and into the main part of the house. In his exploration, he found the sitting room, the parlor, the library, and then, finally, chanced upon the kitchen in the back of the house. It's pitch darkness made him wish he'd remembered to bring a candle or a lantern with him. He'd forgotten what it was like without the modern convenience of electricity. There was a sliver of light coming from a window over the basin and he followed it across the room. Nudging the curtains apart, he let a stream of the moonlight flood the room. Nothing to read by, but adequate enough, he hoped, to find some sort of food. He rummaged through the cupboards and into the pantry, only to find a wheel of aged cheese and some hardened, stale bread. There was a kettle on the stove and a tin of what he hoped was tea. He made a mental note to visit the nearest village and purchase supplies.

As luck would have it, there was a box of matches next to the stove as well as a cord of wood bundled neatly next to it. The wood was so dry, Thomas was able to build a fire in no time, blowing on the flames to stoke them enough to bring the kettle to a boil. As he waited for it to be hot enough, he searched for a plate, a tea cup and some utensils, placing them on the butcher block as he found each one. They were dusty and he wiped them off with the bottom of his shirt, no cares as to whether the coating would leave a stain. As his stomach rumbled again, that was the least of his worries. He sliced some of the bread and cheese, making himself a sandwich of sorts, and placed his food on the plate just in time for the kettle to squeal. He poured the water into the teacup and added some of the loose tea into it, intending on using the spoon he'd found to take them out after it steeped. His imagination made the meal more enticing than it was as his mouth began to water. When the tea was finally done, he spooned the leaves into the basin and set about dunking his sandwich into the liquid, hoping it would at least soften the bread and melt the cheese a little.

Rosemarie entered the kitchen while he ate, silently watching him as he slurped the sopping bread into his mouth, not caring that tea spilled down his chin and onto the front of his shirt. Finally, she said something, startling him. "The delivery boy never came with the food," she said. "He was due two days ago."

Thomas nearly choked on his sandwich. He coughed and swallowed the mouthful he'd been chewing. "What have you been eating, then?" he asked, still clearing his throat.

She ignored the question. "I think the bandits got him," she whispered, her voice full of fear. "I told him not to come at night, but he didn't listen."

"No matter," he said, "I'll set out to get some food in the morning." He held up what was left of his dinner. "Would you like some? This is the last of it."

"Thank you, Sir," she nodded, "But I'm fine. I've had some berries I picked this afternoon."

He couldn't bear the thought of her going hungry on his account. She was already thinner than he was. "No, you must eat," he instructed as he placed the food and the cup into her hands. "I've had enough." Her skin was cool to the touch, like she had such little meat on her bones that she could no longer insulate herself, and it left him no doubt that he'd done the right thing.

Rosemarie thanked him before taking the food in the direction of the stairs. "I'll eat this in my quarters," she said. "It's much more comfortable in there." Before he could protest, she disappeared up the stairs again, leaving him alone on the lower level of the house. Thomas had no recourse, but to go to his own room and sleep.

For the next few days, Thomas was up with the dawn, asleep with the sun, his interactions with Rosemarie relegated to the cordial confines of Master and servant. He would pass her in the hallway and tip his head to her, watching for some sort of reaction other than the clinical coolness with which she conducted her daily business. During his visit to town, he'd procured some new dresses for her, guessing on her size as best he could. She'd looked pleased when he presented them to her, but she continued to wear the same blue dress she'd worn the day he arrived. She fascinated him, in this way. There seemed little emotion to her, yet he could tell that behind those green eyes was a passionate soul. He made it his duty to find that soul and draw it out.

During his second week, he followed her, creeping behind her in the shadows of the house as she went about her daily duties. More often than not, she evaded him, her own nature keeping her movements shadowed of their own accord. He was frustrated by this, the desire to know more about her growing daily, to the point of consumption. He'd given up everything he'd hoped to do during his stay- the blueprints and plans gathering dust on the desk in the library as he neglected them. Rosemarie became his focus. And, yet, he knew nothing more of her than he did on the first day. Thomas was beside himself.

He returned from his run for supplied on the third week, something he'd made a ritual of, if not for her, then for himself, to find that she was gone. The woman was nowhere to be found. She'd vanished, but he could still smell her scent in the air. He was sure that she was only hiding, perhaps had secluded herself in her quarters for some reason known only to her. He called throughout the house, his voice echoing to the deepest corners and only serving to reiterate how empty the manor really was. For the first time in weeks, he retired to the library and opened his papers and projects, spreading them across the oak desk and the floor as he studied them. When daylight fell and it began to get too dark to see, he lit the gas lamps and continued on. His goal in throwing himself into the project was less to actually get done what he'd intended and more to serve keeping him from thinking about Rosemarie. It helped, but only slightly, as his mind still wandered to the image he kept of her there.

When his eyes could stand no more, he sighed in defeat and climbed the stairs to his quarters. The house seemed darker than usual, its confines closer to him, squeezing in, making the aloneness of him much more pronounced than it felt when he'd occupied himself. As he stepped into the upper corridor, he could see a light from under a door across the hallway from his own. Curious, he stopped when he reached it, placed his palm on the wooden panel and gently pushed it open, but only just a sliver. Thomas peeked through the sliver to see her. _She must have gone out for the day and returned late_ , he thought. _I just didn't hear when she returned_. 

He watched her, knowing that she had no inkling he was there as she moved about her quarters. The room was as sparsely decorated as his was- a utilitarian bed with a simply-carved headboard, a chest of drawers upon which sat a basin, the one difference being that there was a copper tub set up in front of the fireplace. The tub was steaming, he could tell she'd readied it not long before, and she tested the waters with one dip of her hand. Satisfied with the temperature, she unbuttoned the tattered blue dress and let it slide from her shoulders. She wore nothing under, which tantalized him even more. As she stepped gingerly into the water, Thomas could see a smile of satisfaction creep across her face. He watched until she closed her eyes and leaned back with a deep sigh.

His obsession with Rosemarie hit its peak at that moment. Her skin reminded him of alabaster in its pale perfection, even despite the continuation of her freckles and he longed to touch the pert breasts she'd hidden under the dress. Surprised and slightly embarrassed with his own reaction to a woman he barely knew, Thomas turned to escape into his own room and deal with his thoughts until he heard her sweet voice carry to his ears. "You should come in and join me," she said. "I saw you looking."

"You did?" he asked, feeling his own face flush. He faced her door once again and pushed it open even more, enough that she could see his face.

Rosemarie was watching him, her green eyes wide with interest. "I left the door open because I wanted you to watch me," she smiled.

Thomas gulped as he entered her room, the air suddenly too thick and warm for him. He loosened his shirt collar, unbuttoning it so he could breathe. "Why?" he asked, his voice barely a rasp of its former self. His feet carried him closer to her of their own volition and before he knew it, he was standing next to the tub.

"Because you are The One," she answered as though it were the obvious conclusion. "I've known it since you first arrived."

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew what she meant and he didn't question her. It seemed like a dream, the interaction between them and, were it not so dreamlike, he'd have asked her for more. But here, where they were, somewhere between awake and dreaming, all he could do was nod. He only knew it meant forever.

She stood, the water from her bath coursing in rivulets down her perfect skin, leaving marks of red in its wake. His breath hitched as he watched the streams find her nipples and drip from them, something he found more erotic than anything he'd ever seen before, and his attention was kept there even as she reached out and finished unbuttoning his shirt. Her lips found his bare chest, crawling across his flesh with intent as her deft fingers delved more downward, to the buttons fastening his trousers and began working them. Thomas closed his eyes as she finished, letting his trousers fall to his feet before grasping his manhood. Her fingers were cool against the heat of his skin and it made him gasp. "Step in here," she whispered as her kisses reached his collarbone.

Thomas obliged, kicking his feet from his shoes, pulling the socks he wore off and stepping out of the pooled trouser legs. He climbed into the tub with her, facing her even as she moved to kneel over him, straddling him. The water was warm and it seemed to match the temperature of her heat as she lowered herself onto him, enough so that he barely noticed she had until she began rocking her hips into him. Kissing her, he felt a hunger that had been latent, a desire that he'd long-ago buried. It manifested itself in the form of the insistent kisses that bruised both their lips, the prying of her mouth open with this tongue and exploring it, even as his hands explored her body before grasping her hips, pulling her onto him more, holding her there.

Rosemarie arched her back as he thrust into her, letting him suckle her breasts, graze his teeth over her hardened nipples, release his animal instinct. He rutted into her, reduced to a feral creature as he felt her walls constrict around her and heard her mewls of pleasure morph into the broken screams of passion. On the end of her first orgasm came another, then another, each more violent then the last until his own pressure was built up and he released inside her, his hips bucking, his desire to push through her matching the strength at which her body spasmed against his. They collapsed against each other, spent, satisfied. "Rosemarie," he whispered, "You are my destiny." 

She nodded. "Yes."

They climbed from the tub and dried off with the old towels she'd had stacked on a chair next to it, moving only so far as her own bed, collapsing into it, lovers entwined.

"This is it, Sir," came a voice from downstairs. Thomas' eyes flew open and he listened for more, but the voices were muffled. He sat up in the bed and prepared to pull his clothing on again.

Rosemarie held him, her arms around his waist. "Don't go," she whispered. "They'll go away, soon."

Thomas shook his head. "They're intruding," he said, his voice full of disbelief and indignance. "I need to let them know we're here and that they can't just come barging in."

"No," she replied. "They'll go away and won't come back, you'll see."

"How do you know?" 

He heard the men as their heavy feet climbed the steps and held up his hand before she could answer. Just outside the door, he heard another man say, "This is a beautiful estate, which, sadly, has not been occupied for a long time."

Another voice said, "Well, yes, there was a tenant, a man named Sharpe, but the poor man's carriage overturned in the gorge as he returned from town. Poor bloke. A talented engineer, I hear as well. A great loss."

Rosemarie held his hand. "I know because they always do," she whispered in reply. "Everyone except you."

Stunned, he looked around the room and saw what his eyes had failed to see before. There was no water in the tub, the embers in the fireplace, gone. There was a thick coating of dust over everything, even the floors where they'd left wet footprints only the night before. 


End file.
